THE four years following the centennial were busy， happy ones， of varied interests and employments， public and private. Sons and daughters graduating from college， bringing troops of young friends to visit us； the usual matrimonial entanglements， with all their promises of celestial bliss intertwined with earthly doubts and fears； weddings， voyages to Europe， business ventures杋n this whirl of plans and projects our heads， hearts， and hands were fully occupied. Seven boys and girls dancing round the fireside， buoyant with all life's joys opening before them， are enough to keep the most apathetic parents on the watch-towers by day and anxious even in dreamland by night.
My spare time， if it can be said that I ever had any， was given during these days to social festivities. The inevitable dinners， teas， picnics， and dances with country neighbors， all came round in quick succession.
We lived， at this time， at Tenafly， New Jersey， not far from the publisher of the Sun， Isaac W. England， who also had seven boys and girls as full of frolic as our own. Mrs. England and I entered into all their games with equal zest. The youngest thought half the fun was to see our enthusiasm in "blindman's bluff，" "fox and geese，" and "bean bags." It thrills me with delight， even now， to see these games！
Mr. England was the soul of hospitality. He was never more happy than when his house was crowded with guests， and his larder with all the delicacies of the season. Though he and Mr. Stanton were both connected with that dignified journal， the New York Sun， yet they often joined in the general hilarity. I laugh， as I write， at the memory of all the frolics we had on the blue hills of Jersey.
In addition to the domestic cares which a large family involved， Mrs.
Gage， Miss Anthony， and I were already busy collecting material for "The History of Woman Suffrage." This required no end of correspondence. Then my lecturing trips were still a part of the annual programme. Washington conventions， too， with calls， appeals， resolutions， speeches and hearings before the Committees of Congress and State legislatures， all these came round in the year's proceedings as regularly as pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving， plum pudding for Christmas， and patriotism for Washington's birthday. Those who speak for glory or philanthropy are always in demand for college commencements and Fourth of July orations， hence much of Miss Anthony's eloquence， as well as my own， was utilized in this way.
On October 18， 1880， I had an impromptu dinner party. Elizabeth Boynton Harbert， May Wright Thompson (now Sewall)， Phoebe W. Couzins， and Arethusa Forbes， returning from a Boston convention， all by chance met under my roof. We had a very merry time talking over the incidents of the convention， Boston proprieties， and the general situation. As I gave them many early reminiscences， they asked if I had kept a diary. "No，" I said， "not a pen scratch of the past have I except what might be gathered from many family letters." They urged me to begin a diary at once； so I promised I would on my coming birthday.
My great grief that day was that we were putting in a new range， and had made no preparations for dinner. This completely upset the presiding genius of my culinary department， as she could not give us the bounteous feast she knew was expected on such occasions. I， as usual， when there was any lack in the viands， tried to be as brilliant as possible in conversation； discussing Nirvana， Karma， reincarnation， and thus turning attention from the evanescent things of earth to the joys of a life to come，杗ot an easy feat to perform with strong-minded women，朾ut， in parting， they seemed happy and refreshed， and all promised to come again.
But we shall never meet there again， as the old， familiar oaks and the majestic chestnut trees have passed into other hands. Strange lovers now whisper their vows of faith and trust under the tree where a most charming wedding ceremony杢hat of my daughter Margaret杦as solemnized one bright October day. All Nature seemed to do her utmost to heighten the beauty of the occasion. The verdure was brilliant with autumnal tints， the hazy noonday sun lent a peculiar softness to every shadow杄ven the birds and insects were hushed to silence. As the wedding march rose soft and clear， two stately ushers led the way； then a group of Vassar classmates， gayly decked in silks of different colors， followed by the bride and groom. An immense Saint Bernard dog， on his own account brought up the rear， keeping time with measured tread. He took his seat in full view， watching， alternately， the officiating clergyman， the bride and groom， and guests， as if to say：
"What does all this mean？" No one behaved with more propriety and no one looked more radiant than he， with a ray of sunlight on his beautiful coat of long hair， his bright brass collar， and his wonderful head. Bruno did not live to see the old home broken up， but sleeps peacefully there， under the chestnut trees， and fills a large place in many of our pleasant memories.
On November 12， 1880， I was sixty-five years old， and， pursuant to my promise， I then began my diary. It was a bright， sunny day， but the frost king was at work； all my grand old trees， that stood like sentinels， to mark the boundary of my domain， were stripped of their foliage， and their brilliant colors had faded into a uniform brown； but the evergreens and the tall， prim cedars held their own， and， when covered with snow， their exquisite beauty brought tears to my eyes. One need never be lonely mid beautiful trees.
